Breathing Deeply
by EnglishGrlVerity
Summary: New Chapter Added! After Fred's funeral, George goes up to their old room in the hopes of being alone. Instead he becomes engulfed with memories of who he once was. Can he ever be whole again? Short look into George's thoughts.
1. Breathing Deeply

AN: Hey everyone, this is just a quick look into George's thinking after Fred's funeral. I don't think I'll write more for this. The only other idea I have in terms of George is a fight between him and Harry, and that fight ends up being pretty explosive. But I might just upload that as another one shot. Enjoy!

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><p>Breathing deeply, George closed the door to his room at the Burrow, pressing his forehead against it. He knew this day had to pass at some point. He knew he would have to see himself being lowered into the ground, hear his friends talk about him; remember what life was like as a whole instead of a half. It had been harder than he expected. His mother had clung to him as if he was life itself. His father couldn't stop looking at him. Lee was crying; <em>Lee<em>, the eternally happy Lee, was _crying_. George couldn't believe it when he saw it. George had almost even made fun of Lee; he was just waiting for Fred to start it.

George hadn't cried. He had breathed deeply, as he had done now. When he wasn't wrapped in his mother's arms or holding his father's gaze, all George could do was look at _him_. His brother. Himself. How could Fred have died without him dying too? How did one twin live without the other? Now George was George, just George, not Fred and George, but _just_ George; he was singular, he lost his pair.

George turned around to face his cramped and crowded room. Living at their flat and then at their Aunty Muriel's, George had almost forgotten all of their left over merchandise and broken experiments were stored here. He thought it was fitting that he be here now. Not because it was his room and he was living at the Burrow again, but because he was left over, he was broken. He fit in here.

Alone.

There was no one to clutch at him. No one to stare at him, searching for Fred in George's eyes. No. The only things leering at him here were his memories. George walked the short three steps to his bed and sat down, staring at the empty bed across from his. George could see Fred there, tossing a ball from one hand to another, talking about his Yule Ball night with Angelina. Fred was smiling and winking suggestively. George knew they hadn't really _done_ anything, but Fred wanted to impress George, and George had let him.

George looked away. On the wall behind Fred's bed—no wait, George reminded himself, it was just a bed now, not Fred's—on the wall behind the bed there were a scorch marks. George told him, he _told_ Fred, not to light that firework in their room, mum would kill them if she found out, but Fred hadn't listened, he just smirked at George and lit it anyway. George followed the scorch marks up the wall and to the ceiling smiling slightly at the thought of the pinwheel zooming along.

George let his eyes wander around their room for a moment longer: The smell of sick never really left the closet where Fred and George had experimented with the puking pastilles, the crack in the wall next the window where George was punched in the face by one of their joke telescopes, a wide water stain on Fred's desk from a thawing bottle of Fire Whiskey—they had been sick that night for an entirely different reason.

George could hear his family members coming up the stairs. Every time it sounded as if the person stopped on his landing. They probably stared at his door. George could envision them raising their hands to knock but never really mustering the courage to actually do it. That was ok with George. All he wanted right now was to just be alone with his memories anyway; they were so much easier to face than his family.

George looked over at _the bed_ across from him again. He wondered how long it would take for him to get used to articulating every thought he had instead of speaking in half sentences. He wondered how the shop would be able to function without business minded Fred around. Most of all, though, he wondered how he could ever feel whole again if all he had was himself and a ghost.

He wasn't necessarily angry at Fred for leaving. Fred and he had both known the risks involved in this fight. If George was being honest with himself, he knew he really shouldn't have been as mad at Harry as he was either—Harry hadn't dragged them into this; Fred and George had leapt into the war without looking where they would land until they were in too deep, and there was no turning back at that point.

George supposed he was just angry. Angry because he was alone now. And George was sad—worse than sad, George was depressed. He could imagine Fred laughing at him, making fun of his lousy mood and pulling out a bottle of Fire Whiskey from his nightstand drawer. Actually, now that George thought about it, there was probably still Fire Whiskey in his brother's nightstand drawer, left over from their younger years and sleep overs with Lee. Yes. That would do the trick and put George to sleep rather quickly and sleep was just about what he needed right now.

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><p>Ok guys, please leave a review! Could you'll let me know what you thought about this chapter and please share your thoughts on PotterMore! I'm super excited to find out what it is, what do you guys think?<p> 


	2. Physical Contact

AN: So, as it turns out, the chapter could not sit by itself, and George just wouldn't stop telling me about punching Harry, so here is the sort chapter. But this really is the last. Hopefully it doesn't take away from chapter one too much.

Thank you to my wonderful reviews: AmberTonks, ModestLobster, and VickyD. You guys are awesome : )

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><p>He woke up that morning feeling sick. He turned over and threw up on the side of his bed. He promptly grabbed his wand and cleaned up the mess, but the smell lingered, making George feel even sicker. He pushed himself up, grabbed a tee shirt, and left his room to go downstairs. It was earlier, the sun had barely risen, and George hadn't expected anyone else to be up yet, so when he went to the kitchen with the purpose of making tea, George was surprised to see Harry sitting there. George paused, gazing at Harry's black eye and thought back to yesterday.<p>

_He looked at him past his father's gaze. He was just standing there, staring at the casket in front of him. No tears, no emotion. Just a stoic gaze. It was his fault. If he had never talked to Ron in first year, if he hadn't stayed at the Burrow, if he hadn't befriended them, then _he_ would still be alive. _

_Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was being illogical. They would have fought anyway. They were brave. They were going to stand up for their family, for their mum's dead brothers, for what they believed was right. _

_They didn't think one of them would die. And if they did, they didn't think the other wouldn't know until fifteen minutes afterwards. _

_Of all the things they have done in their life, George was sure that he felt the most guilty, the most regret, over that. _

_And if they hadn't met Harry, they wouldn't have had Aberforth contact them, they wouldn't have rushed to Hogwarts, they wouldn't have split up to fight in different parts of the castle. _

_He looked at Harry again to see him holding _his_ sister's hand. George narrowed his gaze angrily at Harry. Why could Harry have that small bit of happiness, why was he allowed to experience love with his sister, _his baby sister,_ while Fred would never be able to feel anything again. While George would never feel anything again. _

_The unfairness of life smacked George in the face at that moment. And even though he knew this whole thing was Voldermort's fault, he could help but blame Harry. _

_After the funeral was over and he had detached himself from his mother, George found Harry. He was standing in a small circle with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. George tapped him on the shoulder, waited for Harry to turn around, and then promptly punched him in the face. _

_"Oi!" Ron shouted, moving to stop George from hitting Harry again as Harry staggered backward, just managing to catch himself from falling. _

_Harry met George's eyes then, not looking angry, not looking sad, but looking guilty. _

_Some part of George felt justified. Another stronger part of him felt guilty himself. George turned around and left the group. He couldn't be around people right now. George heard his brother call after him, but Ron didn't follow. _

"Hey," Harry said, glancing at George too.

George nodded his head at Harry, acknowledging him. George went about making a pot of tea, pulling two cups out of the cupboard. He sat the hot tea on the table, poured a cup for himself and a cup for Harry. Harry took his cup, seeming grateful. Then George stirred in a shot of Fire Whiskey from the downstairs cupboard into his cup and looked up at Harry to see if he wanted any as well. Harry nodded, pushing his cup a little toward George. George obliged.

George looked at Harry again, holding his gaze, blowing on his cup. Steam temporarily obscured his vision, but he tilted his head toward Harry's black eye.

"Sorry 'bout that," he apologized before sipping his tea.

Harry looked at George intently before saying, "I'm sorry too."

George shrugged his shoulders, took his cup, and went back upstairs. As it turned out, he really didn't want to talk to people either. George decided to just open his window and cast a wind charm, that should do the trick, and besides, Fred was waiting for him there.

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